Naivete' - The Sequel

More tales from the education of a reformed knucklehead (some may be recycled from previous posts, if so, forgive me for I cannot keep up with myself):

20,000 What?

At some point in my Junior High career, I was told to read Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.  Once I heard it was a submarine story, I was sold.  I was even motivated to look up the measurement mentioned in the title.  I learned that a league was about two and a half miles, and it set me on a ponderous ponder - which part of the ocean was 50,000 miles deep?

I Do What?

When I was in the fourth grade, a very pretty girl approached me and asked me if I wanted to be her ex-boyfriend.  I was just on the fringe of love/hate with girls, the brink I would ironically return to forty odd years later, and the idea sounded intriguing - perhaps it was the way she said it, the siren's smile she was perfecting.  Before I dashed wildly in, I asked her what it meant to be an ex-boyfriend, a level of ignorance I would learn never to admit to a woman again.  With a very pensive expression she explained: "well I have lots of them and they throw candy bars at me."  I looked at her, thought about it for a bit, then decided I'd rather have the chocolate.  Who says you gain wisdom as you age?

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

Of all the conflicts I had with the priests in my catechism course, this one got me busted, literally a handful of times (poor pun for it was a paddle that did the busting).  I must have been tuning out some critical information, for somehow I was under the impression there was only one Mary in the "Jesus stories" I was learning.  When asked if I knew what the Christmas miracle was, I earnestly replied that it had something to do with Mary convincing Joseph she was a virgin, given her line of work.  Sometimes the honest mistakes hurt the worst.

Last Request

I was in the sixth grade, visiting a friend at his house.  He had enticed me over that day with the promise to expose his father's hidden cache of Playboy magazines.  I believe I was over before the phone was back in its cradle.  I don't remember the details of our reading habits that day, but I do remember the horrified clamour when his mother burst into the room.  I was sent home with no hope of beating the telephone call that would admonish my mother for her corrupting son's work.  When I got home, my mother was in the doorway, looking at me as if I had murdered the cat and eaten it raw.  All she could do was yell at me and tell me what my step-father was going to do to me when he got home.  She must have been convincing, because I truly believed my life was in eminent peril.  I contemplated my fate, and chose the only logical course of action given my limited hours on earth - I snuck out and back over to my friends house to look at as many magazines as I could, a condemned man's last request.  Well. we were caught again, and I was banished permanently from the place, an evil influence expurgated.  I avoided my mother and slipped through my bedroom window, waiting to face my doom as a man at peace with his maker, with a vivid image of Miss January burned brightly in his head.  My step-father returned, solemnly listened to my mother's sordid report, then called me in.  I walked bravely up to him and raised my gaze to his.  He broke into a wide smile and said, "that's my boy."  I took it in stride and walked past my mother victoriously, knowing she never again would regain the ability to condemn me to death.

Ipso Facto Wacko

I was with the same friend some months later after the pornography scandal had subsided, and we were out for a long walk in the countryside, searching for tadpoles to collect, anything else to kill.  We had our BB guns, and had even upgraded to pellets.  We were armed and we were perilous. I had noticed over the months that he was sort of odd, odd in the sense that even as a sixth-grader, he was a bit erratic.  I think I was his only friend, and I knew he spent a great deal of time out of class, either with the vice-principal or the nurse.  He talked about strange things, strangely.  I ignored most of that because he was willing to explore with me, to get me out of my house as often and as long as possible.  He had gotten me in a lot of trouble though, not just over the contraband periodicals, there was the GI Joe raid on the Barbie party that I paid a heavy price for - I didn't know at the time that a primary duty of all soldiers was to ravish women, and when I followed him into my sister's party with our GI Joes, I had no idea what was in store for the poor Barbies, Ken was not very valiant, and I paid.......anyway, we were out that day just reconnoitering, shooting at things and missing, enjoying the great outdoors.  We wandered much further that day than normal, and came upon a large concrete structure with lights on top of it.  As he was my cultural informant on all things in the area, I asked him what the lights were for.  He responded confidently, "to keep planes from hitting the tower."  I then asked the question that should have begged the  punchline  but did not, I asked what the tower was for.  Without a moment's hesitation he said, "to hold up the lights."  I looked at him, decided that he was completely serious, and dropped the matter.  I did decide then and there that he was either a genius or a madman.  A few years later I heard he was limiting his philosophic discourse  to the other inmates at a teen-aged psych ward.

Ramadan Night 3

Satan's plan is (but)
To excite enmity and hatred
Between you, with intoxicants
And gambling, and hinder you
From the remembrance
Of Allah, and from prayer
Will ye not then abstain?
S. 5 A. 91

This past year, almost 11,000 people died in alcohol related automobile accidents in the USA alone.  One in three traffic deaths is caused by alcohol, and on average one American is killed in an alcohol related accident every 50 minutes. Three million violent crimes each year are attributed to alcohol use, that is just under one crime per second. Three out of four spousal assailants are under the influence of alcohol.  These statistics do not include drugs, just alcohol.  They are also only the reported crimes.

Twelve million Americans are addicted to gambling.  More than 60% of addicted gamblers report that they have committed crimes to fund their habit.  If the expense they caused was spread to all citizens, it would come to $57 for every man, woman, and child.  

These are just a few statistics, what is not listed is the number of broken families, ruined friendships, lost lives, lost income, lost productivity, lost potential.  All for the right to consume fermented drinks, and to try to make money without honestly earning it.  Who else but the devil could have created such plagues on the earth, that the earthlings themselves would jealously covet?  And who else could kill a man in a drunken accident, then sit in the back of the room, invisibly chortling, as his relatives send off their loved one in a drunken wake?  Who else could have created such silly contrivances (when examined exhumed from human reverence) that mothers would trade for their own children, fathers for their lives, teens for their dreams.  Only the devil.

I have always been puzzled as to how liberals and conservatives alike can defend these horrible indulgences.  I think the devil is in the details and knows them well, and the details are something like this: Inside of us lies that person who longs to be superior, to be able to handle what others cannot, to be able to master anything with self-discipline.  No matter how many people perish and suffer from alcohol and gambling, as long as some can control their indulgence, others will envy the ability, and declare their right to compete. Never have I heard a logical defense of these two activities that did not include a specious appeal to human freedom, human choice.  Never a balanced accounting of loss and gain.  Very little discussion of gain period.  The most honest argument is that the cork could never be put back in the bottle (forgive the pun). Only the devil can convince you a battle is lost before it is joined, or that you can rationalize away anything with a little vain vocabulary. 

I believe in the devil for many reasons.  I believe only the devil can make us jealous of what we don't have, what we don't deserve, and he can make us settle for the false consolation of drink.  I believe only the devil can make us lust after that which we do not earn, and he can make us settle on the caprice of luck, slanted luck at that.  I believe the devil has led us to create misery  and despair in order to give us these two maladies, and let us believe they are crutches, the only way to temporarily escape the lives we have come to dread. And I believe only the devil can distract us so completely that we lose our way, and trade our blessings and dreams for the gilded folly of addiction., shinier in the gloom of our malaise than the sober strength embedded in the words of our Lord. The devil deals in trinkets and pretty looking babbles.

I don't know where the devil is, or exactly what he is.  He has been in my life since the start though, wreaking enough havoc and mayhem to distract my family from a faith they once held, allowing me to build a false sense of faith, or even an anti-faith.  I don't know if the devil is naturally inside all of us, or like a vampire has to be invited in, but he shows up.  I have discussed the horrors alcohol brought to my life in earlier posts, gambling was also right behind, taking everything good we could have know, stunting our sense of worth and self-promise, creating a reality only the devil could have loved. I have never really been frightened of or motivated by the  threat of hell, I have been there.

Revisiting God's words above, I am sad they were not known by my parents, their parents, their parent's parents, any of my ancestors.  For the devil fears a weak link, a link that can break the entire chain.  I hope I have broken my chain, that my daughters see in my life an alternative to these cruel crutches that cripple us, our families, friends, and society.  Crutches can cripple, the devil knows that too.

*A painful example: http://philosopherking-michael.blogspot.com/2010/10/leslie-set-it-off.html

Chasing Grace

Grace is no longer that serendipitous moment I stumble on earnestly as I plow through my day.  I recognize its dominion, I have charted its domain, I know where it blooms.  I know where it is, how to entice it, how to embrace it when it comes.  It is no longer an elusive stranger, flirting and fleeing, leaving me with the cruel temptation to delay it.  I know grace.

I find grace in three places actually, each unique, each as bountiful as the other.  Ironically, these portals are all at the intersections of people, sometimes strangers.  I am not sure if I am a full, card-carrying misanthrope, but I have never found solace in others, never been able to share much with too many people.  The fact that the greatest feeling I know comes from the confluence of my efforts and their openness does not escape me, does not fail to raise a small, sardonic smile.

I find grace when I connect to my daughters - it doesn't happen as often as I would like, but we are working on it.  It seems I have always been a stage behind them.  I can remember when they were very young, being eager for the day they could talk, when they did, I didn't understand them.  My gruff, reserved nature did not help them bond with me, and neither were too keen to spend my free time with me out in the garage building furniture.  But now, as they have matured, we can talk.  It is easier for me to listen, and for the first time in my life, my ears are open for another purpose than to extract detail, to solve problems - I just simply enjoy their company, they are wonderful young women.  This is Ramadan, and it would be remiss if I did not thank Allah for his patience, and that which he bestowed on them. I am a very, very lucky man.

The second place I find grace is in the classroom, whether there are a hundred

of my peers, a few dozen lost teenagers, or just three kids at a friend's house in Amman.  When I teach, I reach, share, and care.  This realm is the first place I encountered grace many, many years ago.  It was in Jamaica, and I had experienced it many times, always surprising me.  I could not engender it, call it out, even sustain it once it arrived.  It was a feeling that I belonged, that I was giving for once, and receiving in direct proportion.  It was natural, and I was connected to everyone in the room - the teacher/student boundaries were gone, and we were all smiling and learning, no one of us subjected, no one of us superior, all of us as one.  My college did not prepare me for this, as a matter of fact, I did not learn to cajole it until I left those lessons of my youth, and I taught as myself, taught as a man who cared for his students more than his ego or his reputation.  I have found my way, and a balance with the expectations of my craft.  Today, the classroom is often a haven from the rest of my day, a refuge.

My final venue for grace is the newest to me - it is in prayer, often when I congregate with others.  I don't pray like I should, and I don't make it to the mosque every Friday, but I am improving.  When I pray, my mind clears, and the minutiae of the day drifts off with any pain or frustration I might be suffering.  I am praying at least twice a day regularly now, sometimes more.  I want to pray five times as I should, and I want to pray in the mosque more often.  I have prayed in many places around the world, including the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem on Eid, a humbling experience.  My favorite moment praying however, was on Eid a year or so ago in Amman, at the downtown mosque.  I had spent a lot of time in the crowded neighborhood around the mosque, exploring the side streets and markets.  There were video stores, clothing stores, food markets, hardware stores, and restaurants. It was a favorite spot of mine to hang out.  Oddly though, as a tourist, I mingled with thousands of people who paid no mind to me, with whom I felt no connection.  It was as if we were each alone, moving about avoiding each other.  I didn't expect the experience I had that first morning I prayed in the mosque.

As I made my way in and took off my shoes looking for a memorable spot to store them, there were hundreds of others filing in.  We all found places on the carpet, and made unique and lonely prayers.  But then as we were called to prayer, we all moved forward easily, filling every open spot without effort, and at once, we were a sea of worshippers all in unison.  Shoulder to shoulder, sole to sole, brother to brother. It was such an incredible feeling to be there, a White American ignored for who he usually was, and embraced as a brother Muslim.  No one looked at me as if I was out of place, no one looked at all - I was granted the anonymity of respect, and I never felt so connected to a group of people in my life.  We prayed in unison and I understood the affirmation of fellowship.  Not patting each other on the back, raising our voices in cheers, bellowing for attention. It was the closest I have been to my God. As we rose to leave, there were kind smiles and gentle nods as I made my way back to find my shoes.  I never felt isolated again downtown, and I am sure I smiled more often as I shopped.

Ramadan Night 2

Whatever good, (O man!)

Happens to thee, is from Allah;

But whatever evil happens

To thee, is from thyself

And We have sent thee

As a Messenger

To (instruct) mankind.

And enough is Allah

For a witness.

He who obeys

The Messenger, obeys Allah

But if any turn away,

We have not sent thee

To watch over them.

S.4 A 79-80

This is the type of message I would not have understood years ago, as a matter of fact, it was the kind I misguidedly despised.  And at first, its sounds as if God is like a petty parent - ie, if my child turns out good, I was a great parent, if not, there was something wrong with the child. I still have that "ear" in my head that can hear these words incorrectly, but now, that ear is no longer connected to my heart.  I know the intention of this verse precisely now because I can feel it in my heart.

Good and Evil were always on my mind then.  Not so much good as evil. When I thought of religion, I thought of evil things. I did not ascribe evil to religion, did not focus my thoughts on the idea that religions were evil, that they did evil things, nay it was that they did such a poor job reconciling their doctrines with the presence of evil all around us.  It was the distance from God and the devil among us, the devil within us that troubled me.  This angst was not born in the malignancy  of my childhood, but in the witnessing  of terror around the world, terror that singled out children, women, decent souls.

When I balked at the idea that God could favor me, in seeming preferential grace, the priests and other religious caretakers tried to makes sense of it all for me.  They took exactly the wrong tack.  They told me about the  personal relationship I was to have with God, how much He loved me, and that I should love myself so that I could accept Him.  They just could not get me to understand that God would bless me, even over something as minor as a wart, and let a child shrivel up an die half a world away. They were good with the good, lousy with the evil.

I truly mean it when I say they knew the concept of good.  I saw this in hundreds of ministries in the third world, countless priests, ministers, lay folk who did wondrous things for there less fortunate brothers and sisters.  They did not though, in my estimation, do a very good job explaining the presence of evil that  made their very existence there necessary.  I turned to other sources to understand evil - critical theory, Marxism, psychology, philosophy, etc.  It would be quite awhile before I would come back, full circle, to faith for my answers.

I hear this message now in simpler form, a form I can work with, a form that can guide me.  Good and evil here are the fruit of our own industry.  It is not the by product of the actions of others. Faith guides the individual, and eventually unites the group.  We work on our own behaviors to improve those of others.  When we lead a good life, we inspire others to do so as well.  When enough of us agree on the tenets of a righteous life, we strengthen and support each other to change our environment, eventually our world.  Evil then is a vestige that can be cauterized, localized, eradicated when enough us follow our path.  Evil is the selfish resistance to this path. 

We do not create this code, is has been provided by Allah ( the good), and anything else is our sinful contribution (the evil).  God does not take credit for good while absolving Himself from evil.  In submission, humility, and honesty we thank Him for the gift of the promise of good, and beg his mercy and forgiveness for our stubborn proclivity for evil.  Now when I see evil, I know what it is, and I know why it can flourish.  When it touches me from without, it is not my fault unless I succumb, unless I ignore it, unless I allow it to reach and destroy others.  

For me now, the issue is clear - walk my path, fight the evils of others as I should, and keep my mind open to my God.  I will have choices, and I will have the benefit of guidance in making them. I am free, and I am aware. 

The Soft Smile in Robin's Eyes

We lost Robin in 1987, very suddenly.  It was as if the world became too jealous of her beauty and put out her light. 

I met Robin in 1985, we were in the same Peace Corps group stationed in Jamaica.  She was there to teach sign language to rural children who had suffered from Rubella.  She was the youngest volunteer in the group, just twenty-one, and she was the most energetic, compassionate volunteer I had ever met. I have put off composing this post for quite awhile, knowing I could never do justice to her with my inadequate language skills, perhaps no one could.  But it is at this time of the year when she died those twenty-four years ago, and I am always saddened when I think of her. 

Robin haunts me in many ways.  During training, she was always upbeat, always networking with everyone. She had no favorites, she was kind and funny, and could make you feel really good just by being with her.  On the night we swore in as official volunteers, I upset her, something probably difficult to do.  Several of us were sitting around drinking, and the subject of feminism came up.  I had drunk a few too many, and got very playful in my stupid way.  I was debating just to debate, being the obnoxious devil's advocate, or maybe just the devil.   I should have known they weren't catching on to what I was doing when they began to become upset, but I continued anyway.  Finally, one of the other male volunteers walked over and pulled her away from the fracas.  I knew I was wrong, but I also recognized his pedantic gesture, rescuing the damsel in distress from the villain.

I regret that night, even though we soon made up (I don't think it was possible for her to be truly angry with anyone), and I even stayed over at her house once while visiting the area.  She had lost some respect for me, and that was a high price for me to pay for an evening's frivolities. When we had finished our training period, Robin said some very nice things about me when we went around the room acknowledging each other.  She was like that, able to recognize the value in anyone.

Robin worked passionately with those children and volunteered with other agencies.  I saw her off and on in the two years, and always looked forward to it.  Somewhere during her service, Robin met and developed a relationship with a volunteer in the previous group, Martin (not his real name, and you may soon discover why) who was some kind of first aid specialist.  They seemed happy, and when it came time for our group to leave, she decided to travel to Columbia with Martin to look at some short term volunteer opportunities. Robin had been accepted to Galludet in the fall, quite a feat for a "hearing" student as almost all of the school's students were deaf.  She had a brilliant life ahead of her.

Our group had our last conferences and long goodbyes, and I headed back to the states, she to South America.  It was several months later that I heard she had died.  She had been in Bogota with her boyfriend and had fallen ill.  Evidently, Robin had suffered from Addison's disease, and the eventual conclusion was that it complicated whatever illness she contracted, and took her life.  She died in Martin's hands, and even as a trained medic, he couldn't save her. I borrowed  money to fly out to her funeral in Virginia.

It was such a sad few days, with everyone desperately trying to cope with the tragedy.  I stayed with a friend of the families, and caught up with some other volunteers in attendance.  I remember the priest at the funeral remarking that he would not do a eulogy , as Vatican II discouraged it.  Instead, he read Robin's application letter to Galludet, and incredibly moving document.  The biggest funeral I had ever seen burst into tears, and the sobbing went on for several minutes.  God takes his angels when he pleases, but leaves us no insight into how to let them go.

I  mentioned that Robin haunts me.  I am haunted by the fact that I had let her down, that I had fallen in her estimation.  I am haunted by her loss, and the incredible pain I saw her family endure.  But now I am haunted by a terrible notion that has slowly grown in two and a half decades, one that I should have confronted then, but did not have the courage to do so.  I am haunted by the profane possibility that Robin had been murdered. Profane in that I can't believe it happened, and I can't dismiss the possibility - profane that it either happened, or profane that I suspect it.  Profane.

After the funeral, I was sitting out under a tree trying not to cry.  I did not know how to cry in those days, having not yet been taught.  I needed to, and I resisted, I just sat under the tree and listened to the hollowness of the world without Robin.  It had sunk in.  While there, one of Martin's brothers came up to me and started talking to me.  I had met him already, and he was a very nice young man.  We chatted a bit about Robin, her parents, Martin.  A few minutes into the conversation, his countenance darkened and he told me he needed to give me something. This really startled me, and I was afraid before I knew what he wanted to do. Perhaps it was the look on his face, a face no longer racked with grief, but laden with a terrible burden.  I really didn't want to know, but had little choice.

He produced a small notebook that turned out to be Robin's diary.  He told me it had been returned with Martin's things, as he had left Columbia a wreck, and their personal effects had been shipped a week later.  He held out the diary to me, and noticed I didn't want to touch it.  Something was terribly, terribly wrong. I asked him with little faith, what he wanted me to see, what he wanted me to understand.  He realized I wasn't going to read it, so he hesitantly began to explain.  He had unpacked the shipment and had seen the diary near the top of a box.  Knowing better, he couldn't help but to open it and read it.  What he found inside devastated him, and put him in the a horrific situation.  The diary explained that Robin was about to leave Martin, and that his behaviors had grown erratic and troubling, and she was very afraid of him.  She fretted about how to tell him, and the last entry, dated a day before she died, indicated that she had found the necessary resolve to tell him.  A day later she was dead, and there was never a proper autopsy done in Columbia or the US.  Martin's testimony determined the diagnosis. 

I couldn't believe what he was telling me, and I asked him flat out what he wanted me to do.  He told me he wanted me to have the diary, that he could not be burdened with it.  It was his brother after all, and there was already far too much pain to deal with.  I asked him if he had thought about giving it to Robin's parents and he shook his head sadly saying it would kill them.  I truly did not know what to do with this horrible indictment, not knowing what to believe, and recognizing the inflammatory inferences.  He kept trying to pass it over to me and I kept resisting.  It was just too much for me to think about.  I got up, begged him not to give it to me, and walked away.  That was twenty four years ago, and the ghost has grown steadily since.

I don't know what became of the diary, but I have my suspicions.  Now, I wrestle with my memory hoping to lose.  Hoping it wasn't real, or my cruel mind had distorted it over the years.  To tell you the truth, I really am not sure, but I am haunted.

Robin had been at my place the month before we finished our service, and good naturedly teased me trying to get one of the spectacular sea shells I had found while snorkeling.  It was a Triton's Trumpet, and it was my favorite - I almost gave in and gave it to her, but I had a rare moment of stinginess and I denied her.  Perhaps I believed I would give it to her later.  On the morning after the funeral, I went to her parents place and gave them the shell will little fanfare.  Her mother kissed me with tears in her eyes, and her father drove me and my infant revenant to the airport.

A Prayer for Forgiveness

If an one does evil
Or wrongs his own soul
But afterwards seeks
Allah's forgiveness, he will find
Allah Oft-forgiving,
Most Merciful
S.4 A110

This is a selfish prayer, a prayer for myself.  If you have read my posts, I know it sounds like I lament far too many of my sins and actions, and I am sure that appears I haven't learned anything.  That is not my intent, actually far from it.  I believe I have been blessed with an extraordinary life, a life filled with service to others.  I have given so much to others, in so many ways, in so many places.  Unfortunately, the magnitude of my philanthropy is in direct proportion to my weaknesses. I have posited in the past that I work so hard to improve the lives of others to combat my selfish behaviors, my selfish needs.  Now I view that formula a bit differently.

I will continue to ponder on and write about my weaknesses, as I want to spend the next twenty-five years making a bigger difference, not one mediated by the backwards steps of my sins.  In less than a month, I will return to my high school to be inducted into their Alumni Hall of Fame for humanitarian service.  I want to feel good when I talk to the students in that school, I want to be honest, I want to feel clean.  When I share my story, and try to motivate them in a modest way, I want no lingering shards of a lifetime of hypocrisy to penetrate the authenticity of my remarks.

So this prayer is for me - Allah forgive me, let me forgive myself.

Ramadan Night 1

Do ye enjoin right conduct

On the people, and forget

(To practice it) yourselves,

And yet ye study the Scripture?

Will ye not understand?

Nay, seek (Allah's) help

With patient perseverance

S.2 A. 44-45

It is Ramadan, alhamdulilah, and I trying to rededicate myself to my faith.  I have always had a deep connection to the philosophy of Islam, just haven't  been as connected to many of the day to day disciplines like I should have.  I think I have allowed myself to confuse other issues with my relationship to Islam.  I am ashamed for that.  For the last two years, I tried to read the entire Koran during Ramadan.  I didn't succeed but I enjoyed picking it up every night. This year I am going to read different Suras and react here to what I have read.  Please forgive me in advance if my interpretations are awry, I just think it would be nice to read and try to articulate what I feel......

This Surah serves a dual purpose I think: it is at once an admonishment to the Jews, but also intended to all of us, whatever holy book we practice.  I found this pertinent as I begin to observe this holy month, a reminder to work on my behaviors, both outwardly and inwardly. I have worked hard to make sure my actions reflected the tenets of my faith. It's not just about avoiding bad practices, it is being proactive and living a generous and dignified life. I am in a place, where I may be the only Muslim most of my coworkers have known. I know whatever I do will reflect on my faith. I think I do a good job representing a good image, but I want to work on my inner faith, that which no one sees.

I know the reference above deals with hypocrisy of behavior, but I am battling hypocrisy of spirit. I want to work on the things that are not easy for me: praying when I should, praying with the right attitude, communing with other Muslims, humbling myself more completely.

My comfort lies in the last line, with patient perseverance.

I hope to continue these small discussions over the next 30 days, pray that I do, pray that I do it gracefully. Thank you.